


After All

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:57:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: If this wasn't the sort of absurdity Crowley signed up for when he and Aziraphale had decided to make a go of it, he didn't know what was.





	After All

Angels are excellent singers.

This is one of the limited number of universally acknowledged truths that, since time immemorial, clerics, mystics, and big shot record producers have been able to agree upon. And while the question of whether this particular truth comes down to nature or nurture – whether it's to do with a certain alignment of vocal chords or the ability to perceive pitches which most terrestrial beings cannot – has caused more than a few few-too-many rows at the Holy-Minded Persons of Suburban Des Moines holiday party over the years, it's still nothing less than irrevocable. 1

An angel singing Dick Van Dyke singing lopsided cockney, however—

"Oh it's a jolly _'oliday_ with Crowley…"

"Aziraphale?"

"…Crowley makes your 'eart so light…"

"Aziraphale."

"When the day is grey and ordin—Oh! Crowley, I didn't hear you come in." Aziraphale's backside appeared around the corner and into his shop's main room, followed by his front side, followed by an antique steamer trunk. It was a tatty thing, all plummy leather and brass hardware. And it probably weighed 800 pounds.

Crowley shook his head. "I thought I told you to pack light."

"It's a little light reading, yes."

"You mean to tell me that thing is full of books?"

"Among other necessities."

Crowley hesitated. "Such as?"

"Well, you don't expect me to spend a weekend in the country without a few rambling jumpers, do you? Now give me a hand with this, if you don't mind, just there, yes, there's a good fellow."

"This is never going to fit in the car."

"Oh," said Aziraphale. He paused, pursed his lips, and then: "That should do it." And yes, the 800-pound trunk had metamorphosed into a mere 300-pound trunk precisely the dimensions of the Bentley's boot, minus the size of Crowley's own 800-pound2 suitcase.

Crowley couldn't help but laugh. If this wasn't the sort of absurdity he'd signed up for when he and Aziraphale had decided to make a go of it, he didn't know what was.

And when he found his heart beating a little faster and a certain warmth settling in his belly as Aziraphale pulled him in for a five-six-seven second kiss after they'd settled into the Bentley—Well. That too was the sort of thing he'd signed up for.

***

Crowley wasn't sure why Aziraphale had been so keen to take a weekend holiday in Lower Tadfield, but he was sure _he_ didn't share the sentiment.

For one thing, it meant sleeping in an unfamiliar, probably musty, likely lumpy, certainly miniscule bed.

For another, it meant _taking a weekend holiday in Lower Tadfield_ , a place of such non-significance as to have perhaps the most significance of any place in all of creation. 3

And if he was honest with himself, the thought of returning to Lower Tadfield made his skin crawl. In the nearly three decades since the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't, he'd gone out of his way to avoid traveling within 50 kilometres of the spot. 4 It wasn't that it caused him unease—it was just that… Well. Okay. It frightened the bleeding trousers off him, full-stop. That he should agree to spend not one but two nights at one of the village's dozen or so B&Bs, each bedecked with chintz and frippery and named for some sort of small, brown bird, came as a surprise even to him.

The angel, of course, could be very convincing.

***

"Splendid," said Aziraphale, happily rifling through the issue of _Out of Print Weekly_ he'd brought to keep himself occupied for the duration of their trip—which, Crowley reminded him, would be little more than an hour long from door to door. Or quite less than an hour long, Bentley willing.

And yet, an hour later: "D'you suppose we missed the turning?"

And an hour after that: "Perhaps we ought to stop to ask for directions, hmm?"

And yet an hour more: "For goodness' sake, Crowley, _of course_ I don't want to _take a turn driving_."

"Then I suggest you keep your comments to yourself," Crowley huffed. But it was of no use. There was nowhere to drive _to_. They'd already been through the exact middle of where Lower Tadfield should have been, the spot where every single navigation app on Crowley's mobile let out a chirp that they'd reached their destination, the place marked with a black dot on the reasonably up-to-date map Aziraphale had manifested out of sheer stubbornness—but Lower Tadfield simply wasn't to be found. Vanished. Missing.

Gone.

Crowley pulled the Bentley over to the side of the road, turned off the ignition, and sighed. "I'm going to go stretch my legs." The day was becoming dusky. Long shadows stretched from tree to tree to tree, all the way up the hill and down to a once-farmed field gone feral. Long grasses and wild flowers shifted in the breeze. All manner of insects flittered about. And here and there, so much so as to be everywhere, light filtered through the sunset clouds and cast the world in gold.

It was, Crowley reflected, a pretty sight. They'd surveyed nearly every one of South East England's scenic byways that afternoon, but this was yet a step above; a natural spread; a landscape the poets would've gladly fought over5 to be the first to describe. So where was everybody? Not a single car had passed on the road since they'd stopped. The place was empty.

After a minute, Aziraphale joined him there on the hill, and they stood together, shoulder to shoulder, their hands at first just touching—and then holding.

Crowley said, "I don't suppose you thought to pack some wine in that absurd luggage of yours."

"My dear boy," Aziraphale sighed. And he had.

***

The evening eked into night. Crowley summoned a small assortment of cheeses and finger foods – pickled vegetables and sesame crackers and fig jam – to go along with the delightful bottle of Richebourg Grand Cru 1949 Aziraphale had retrieved from his steamer trunk.

"I've been saving it," he explained, almost shyly. "It's been so long since we went on a proper holiday."

"Oh, it can't've been—"

"Seven years, Crowley."

Crowley winced. "That time in Brighton? In April?"

"The very same," Aziraphale said around a mouthful of Souréliette du Fédou. They'd spread a blanket on a stretch of grass beneath a grand old oak. From their vantage point on the hill, the field stretched out before them, down and out.

And above: the clearest swath of stars Crowley had seen in a century. "No light pollution," he said, puzzled. Surely there should be at least some hint of ever-present urban glow. "Doesn't make sense."

"Yes. And how can an entire village simply disappear?" Aziraphale was buffing his spectacles on a paisley kerchief. "After the whole thing went pear-shaped, could the—Er. Powers that be have plucked it out of the world like a thorn from the proverbial lion's paw?"

"Your people or mine?" Crowley asked, not really expecting an answer. He hadn't even _wanted_ to return to Lower Tadfield. He'd wanted to stay home and terrorize his plants and watch _Bake Off_ reruns… in bed. For that matter, he and Aziraphale could've spent the whole weekend in bed—the whole _week_. He drained his wine glass.

After a long moment, Aziraphale said, wonderingly, "What's that one called?"

Crowley looked to the place in the sky where Aziraphale was pointing. "Perseus," he said. And then, now pointing himself: "Cassiopeia. Lyra. Hercules. Serpens."

"Right. I knew that one."

"You didn't."

"Crowley, are you accusing me of—"

Crowley cut him off with a kiss. "You were never a great celestial navigator, angel."

"It's a good job I kept you around then, eh?"

"Yeah," said, Crowley. He was suddenly feeling drowsy, either from the wine or the humid, earthy night air. He settled down onto the blanket, pressing close into Aziraphale's side. "Just resting my eyes."

Aziraphale combed a hand through Crowley's hair. "Yes. Quite," he said, and Crowley drifted to sleep.

***

"…very astute of you, my boy," Aziraphale was saying. "I don't think he quite ever got over not being as famous as the _other_ William Turner."

Crowley sat upright, staring agape at the world around him— Which was quite clearly a village green and _not_ an uninhabited country landscape. Aziraphale was still seated beside him. And seated beside Aziraphale was a young man wearing flannel and corduroy and an immaculately-trimmed beard.

Aziraphale patted Crowley's arm fondly. "Ah, Crowley. Feeling refreshed?"

"Ngk," said Crowley, because the man wasn't a man, or not only. He was the antichrist.

"It's good to see you, Crowley." Adam Young smiled and held out his hand.

Crowley hesitated before taking it. When at last he did, he was taken aback by its warmth, by the slight calluses on the palm, by the dirt under the nails. Every atom in his body clamored for him to flee from this aberration. But the desire to be near to him was stronger.

He looked—Well. He looked a lot like his dad.

And yet Crowley couldn't detect any malice behind Adam's smile. The grey at his temples had been hard won. The pronounced laugh lines were genuine. His eyes were very blue, and very clear, and it seemed for a moment that the two of them were the only beings in existence. Crowley shuddered.

And then a car honked. To the opposite side of the green, a dog was barking. Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Adam was just explaining how he managed to camouflage the entire village."

"Camouflage?" Crowley repeated.

"Yeah," said Adam. "I do my best to keep prying eyes out of my affairs. At first I just closed off my own house… but I got sick of telling supernatural types to bugger off every other month, so I just put a filter over the lot."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a conspiratorial wink. "It's a Turner of Oxford. I _knew_ I recognized the lighting."

"My mum and dad had a print of it hanging in their bedroom," Adam explained wryly. "Anyway, when I saw it was you two, I decided to make an exception. Aziraphale tells me you're here on holiday."

Crowley shot Aziraphale a look. "Right," he said.

"Well, your money's as good as anyone's. There's a lot of competition in the 'idyllic village' market these days… Had to let in a Starbucks a couple of years back in order to keep up." Adam smiled. "Yeah. Not what you're thinking. I'm on the city planning commission. Being home to the U.K.'s oldest living miniature poodle6 isn't huge for our TripAdvisor reviews." Here he stood, brushed himself off, and began retreating across the lawn. "Have fun, you two," he called. "Just don't go blabbing to upper management."

"Lovely lad," Aziraphale said once he'd gone.

Crowley found he couldn't argue with this. But then, slowly: "Aziraphale?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Where's the Bentley?"

At least the angel had the good grace to look abashed. " _Oxfordshire Landscape with Motor Car_ has a rather nice ring to it, don't you think?"

 

\-----------------------------------------------

[1] Most people don't realize that angelic vocal coaching was behind 24 out of the 25 best-selling albums of all time. Meat Loaf, the single exception – being an angel himself – was self-inspired.  [back]

[2] Pound sterling.  [back]

[3] Save for Pennsauken, New Jersey, birthplace of Pamela Kuchinski, master coiner of buzzwords. Since the year 2000, she had been responsible for the widespread adoption of over three dozen popular acronymic aphorisms, including "YOLO," "FOMO," and up-and-comer "ITATBITALLP" (or "Is This Actually Tofu, Because It Tastes A Lot Like Prawns").  [back]

[4] A strategy that quite unfortunately caused him to miss the only date when all seven cinematic James Bonds were physically present in the same location at the same time: Connery, Niven, Lazenby, Moore, Brosnan, and Craig sat together for a three-hour long panel at BondCon 2005, held at the Greater Oxfordshire Convention Centre, while Dalton organized, promoted, and headlined DaltCon 2005, held in a meeting room at the Greater Oxfordshire Holiday Inn.  [back]

[5] History has immortalized many of the great rhymers' rumble matches: Byron and Keats' Tussle on the Thames, Brontë and Brontë and Brontë's Knockdown in the North, Hemingway and Fitzgerald's Challenge at Chip's East Side Dive, and MC Hammer and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch's Melee at the 1991 Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  [back]

[6] At 42 years young, Shutzi was in fact the oldest living miniature poodle in the Northern Hemisphere. She attributed this longevity to regular walks and a strict vegetarian diet. She and Dog were the happy parents to 12, grandparents to 119, and great-grandparents to 1003. Needless to say, holiday reunions round Jasmine Cottage could get a bit noisy.  [back]


End file.
